


Reunion

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Reunion, wooedforyears 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foreman's going to dance with who brung him if House has to tattoo TAKEN across his forehead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alanwolfmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alanwolfmoon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Down Memory Lane](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1964) by shutterbug_12. 



> Written for alanwolfmoon for participating in [Drabblerama: Road Trip Edition](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/407891.html?thread=3794003#t3794003). Thank you to for the beta. This story is set in the wooedforyears 'verse, and it can be read as a sequel to shutterbug_12's fic [Down Memory Lane](http://shutterbug-12.livejournal.com/123551.html); however, I think (and certainly hope) that it can be read as a standalone.

Glaring out the conference room windows at the bright cheerful stupid world, House xylophones his cane across the venetian blinds. The sun glares right back at him, reflected off the picaresque diamond-glint of Christmas card snow. Any other self-respecting Jersey town would have turned it all to gritty brown slush by now, but Princeton's always been a little too showy for his tastes. The air still smells like spruce a week after they finally got rid of the boughs of bullshit and people are walking around just as merry now as if a new year means a new set of opportunities instead of a new set of fuck-ups. It's thirty degrees out and falling, literally when it comes to cripples edging their way across parking lots and badly-sanded sidewalks, and all that snow just means a crust of prettiness over the black ice slicks. Also, the world is full of idiots. "The world is full of idiots," House announces, because _there's_ a trenchant observation that hasn't stopped being true since the last time he said it.

"Is that your diagnostic opinion?" Taub's sarcasm makes House bristle, but beyond the already-tense hunch of his shoulders, he doesn't show it. He stabs his cane down and twists around, irritated all the more when none of them so much as react to his snappish mood.

"The patient is responding well to treatment," Thirteen says. Her eyes are downcast as if she's actually checking the patient's chart, but her cheekbones radiate discreet amusement at him.

"Looks like it was a granuloma after all," Kutner says, his grin just about as blinding as the snow. It's like he knows House turned around to get away from that particularly impish gleam and decided to keep up the torture for the hell of it. Kutner holds out his fist for Taub, and Taub's all but rubbing House's nose in his self-satisfaction as he returns the bump.

They're all the last thing House wants to think about right now. "Get out of here," he says. "And don't come back until Monday."

They practically explode out of their chairs. Kutner takes the weekend beeper, Thirteen volunteers to do the discharge paperwork, and Taub smirks as he says that he'll tell the patient. It's Friday morning, practically a three-day weekend, not that House cares about anybody's social life except his own. He waits for his demesne to be cleared of all lower orders of being, feeling peevishly justified in griping with bad grace until the door hisses shut on the back of them. So they were right. They wouldn't have been five months ago, and it would serve them right to remember it.

He lifts his cane and points it at Foreman. "And you shut up."

Foreman's shoulders shake, his eyes bright, but he doesn't laugh out loud. Barely. He seems to think he's both immune to and excluded from House's orders. It's incredibly annoying, all the more because it's true. House decides to hate him and his smug face, and it's going well, even though now that the team's gone, Foreman's smug expression is slowly morphing into _smug and calculating just how fast I can make House come_. Knowing what that expression _looks like_ \--and feeling the accompanying twinge of arousal--is part of the whole damn problem.

House's grip on his cane tightens. Patient's alive, no thanks to this hospital's morons, though his own particular morons didn't make too big a mess for once. Now that that's out of the way, he can finally get to the point. "There's a suitcase on your bed."

Foreman raises his eyes to the skies, not even bothering to shift from his casual slump at the head of the table. "Funny, you haven't been over to my place for three days."

"Try three hours. Where are you going?" House snaps his mouth shut. He shouldn't have to ask questions. He shouldn't _want_ to ask questions. And the answers _definitely_ shouldn't matter, since he knows them already.

The smile hooking the corner of Foreman's mouth and pulling it up is too affectionate not to be at least partly pretense. The bastard isn't even fazed, not put off at all by what House knows or how he knows it. "I suppose you think that since I didn't tell you, I wasn't going to tell you."

"Something like that."

"Well, you're right." Foreman shrugs and starts to get to his feet.

House gapes, and then gapes wider so that it couldn't possibly be mistaken for serious. "That's it? I give you amazing head and you're running out on me?"

Foreman tilts his head and raises one very skeptical eyebrow. "Where did you get the key?" That look, and the fact that he isn't shouting, show that he already knows. Or suspects. Probably only suspects. House sneers and refuses to answer. Foreman nods, clearly not expecting anything else, but frustration's beginning to bleed through his facade of reasonableness. "You stole it."

"It was a gift." That much is even true. The rental agent in Foreman's building was totally accommodating when House--politely, but sacrifices had to be made--asked to borrow an extra, and signed _Eric Foreman_ to the form without blinking an eye. There was some small print about a late-return fee after twenty-four hours, but since Foreman clearly deserved to pay for not giving House his own key in the first place, House had no problem passing on the fee as a relationship tax.

Foreman sets his lips. There's no other sign that he's on the edge of his cool, but four months of studying him (obliquely, in every single aspect of his life, not just the usual reserved-for-employees stalking) and House can tell that he's about to explode. "I've been paying for the one you conned out of the rental office for the last month and a _half_ , House!"

Right on schedule. The fact that Foreman doesn't try half so hard anymore to hold his temper in front of him is obscurely, warmly satisfying. House wants to pout, and throw in a big puppy-eyed lip-quiver to show off how hurt he is, but something real gets twisted up in his gut and his complaint comes out sounding too genuine for comfort. "You weren't going to give me one."

"No, I wasn't! Because you'd use it to snoop through my apartment."

"Before I just broke in," House points out.

"I don't want you breaking into my place!"

"Did you think I'd break in _more_ if I had a key?" God, Foreman's complete break with logic pisses him off. He had the key, he used the key. He hasn't ever physically broken in to Foreman's so-sacred apartment, but trust Foreman to miss the obvious.

Foreman's shoulders are starting to get the bulgy look that House can appreciate when Foreman's using his weight to pin House's wrists above his head, but that, when he's angry, only make him look like an officious puffer fish. Foreman breathes in, enhancing the effect, and spaces his words out as if House is too slow to keep up with the niceties. "If you wanted a key, why didn't you steal mine and have one _cut_?"

"Because I like them _au naturel_." All this argument shows is that Foreman hasn't even noticed that _House's_ spare key is still sitting in the groove above his door frame. House hasn't taken it down or hidden it better. Foreman _uses_ it every time he comes over, because House won't get up for him. If Foreman ever caught a clue and stuck it on his key chain, they wouldn't have to have this or any similar conversation. "And that would have taken effort. The dupes in your rental office didn't even check my name against the records."

"So now you're coming to my place when I'm not there--"

"--did you think I'd let you go un _su_ pervised?--"

"--and you're making _me_ pay for it. And _that_ is why I shouldn't tell you where I'm going."

House throws his head back, anger at Foreman's obtuseness catching up to him abruptly. Arguments don't work as foreplay if Foreman doesn't play along. "It's a medical conference!"

Foreman glowers at him, unimpressed. Of course it's a medical conference. What else? He doesn't visit his family and if he does anything besides work and sculpt his stupid body at the gym, House hasn't seen any evidence of it. He's boring! And he doesn't care when House tells him so, which is possibly the only interesting thing about him.

The point is, Foreman wasn't going to tell him. House lets out a disgusted breath and yanks himself back from caring. "You were going to say 'that's also why', weren't you."

Foreman snorts. The puffer look deflates. "It's not actually worth it to keep secrets from you, no."

House experiments with beating the pattern out of the carpet with the tip of his cane. Meeting Foreman's eyes is too much work. Outside, chickadees are chattering as if they don't know it's the dead of winter and they should all be miserably huddled up for warmth. "Next time you can work harder on your pathetic disguise," he mutters.

"No. I won't. Because it doesn't matter, and actually, I was going to tell you."

House hardly bothers to curl his lip in disbelief. "When?"

"When I was leaving. Which is today."

Right. And now that Foreman feels like _sharing_ , he'll cheerfully admit that he's attending the ASSFN in New York as a speaker guest. As if House didn't need to dig that information out of Foreman's email account via Cuddy's office computer after all. "Where are you going?"

"New York. I'm presenting my paper on cognitive neurological development in adolescence." Foreman fixes House with the bland stare that means this is supposed to be _his_ fault somehow. "Which you would know if you signed the papers I give you to read."

It's not fair. After going to the effort of curing his patient on a Friday, House isn't even going to get Foreman, smirking and lazy and hotly determined to explore every inch of House's body with his tongue. They should've had the whole damn weekend. "The papers you give me to read are boring," House says. "And badly researched."

Foreman ignores him. "And you won't be there to heckle me."

House's eyes jerk up at that. If Foreman thinks he's getting off _that_ hook, he has another think coming. "Why not?"

"Because you don't go to medical conferences." If House was looking for a chink in Foreman's armour, he's found it. Foreman frowns in confusion as if he was trusting to that axiomatic truth. "You haven't been to one in the continental US in fifteen years."

Scenting the kill, House forces on an expression of delighted remembrance. "Ah, those halcyon days. I met Wilson at a medical conference. Good times."

"You met Wilson at a bar."

"Who's been telling you such scurrilous lies?"

"The same person who told me you met Wilson in jail. And in New Orleans. And in a hotel elevator."

"Me, you mean. Why can't all of those be true?"

"Because I don't give a rat's ass if any of them are true." Foreman's bored look says all too eloquently that House has been telling too many stories. The problem is, those stories are easier to tell when he's avoiding other subjects, and since Foreman lets himself be distracted by them, House keeps telling them. It's possible Foreman knows too much and will have to be discreetly whacked by a hit man, because House isn't interested in having those stories floating free. On the other hand, Foreman's boring extends to being completely untempted by blackmail opportunities. And House has temporarily mislaid his little black book of assassins' hotlines. He'll have to live for now. "Don't break in to my place while I'm gone."

"Of course not," House says, mentally crossing his heart and promising Scout's Honour. "I have a key."

"I'm having the locks changed."

House narrows his eyes. Foreman's trying to screw with him, but the knot under his xiphoid process tightens anyway. "You want to keep me out that badly?"

Foreman's stupid _I am happy just being near you_ bullshit smile sneaks out into the light of day. He _knows_ that look shouldn't be seen outside the bedroom (or possibly the shower) and that House doesn't believe it even then. Not that he needs to believe it in order to fall prey to Foreman's long, insistent make-out sessions that don't go anywhere because House is too orgasmed-out to care if his body is in gear or not. A chuckle warms Foreman's voice, and he says, "House, if I let you into my place, you'd never want to be there."

House gapes at him. Like an idiot. An idiot Foreman has just caught completely flat-footed.

Foreman smirks and jaunts to the door. "Goodbye. I'll see you in three days."

  


* * *

House pouts when he catches up with Foreman in the parking lot. Foreman's checking under the hood of his car, as if he'd ever actually risk getting engine black all over his regular black. He probably hasn't even touched the dipstick, a joke House will happily save up for later. "You're driving?" he whines instead, not because it will be productive, but because the future has been promising him a jet car for fifty years, and Foreman's Lexus doesn't cut it.

Foreman pointedly slams the hood down, probably imagining catching House's fingers (or other appendages) in the crack. "What does it matter to you?"

"You could have taken the train." House stares off into the middle distance, pulling on a thoughtful grimace. Probably too plebian. Foreman wouldn't want to rub shoulders with the masses. On the other hand-- "I bet you wanted to. You've been getting tips from Wilson on being boring. I bet you wanted to _work_ in transit."

The next slam is the trunk, with Foreman's suitcase tucked inside, retrieved from his apartment before _somebody_ emergency-paged him back to the hospital. House, of course, is innocent, but he has to admit that Admitting-Brad is useful for something other than being the butt of gayer-than-me jokes. "Why the hell would I do that?" Foreman asks, frustration gritting in his voice.

"Because you haven't caught up on on all the tests I ordered this morning."

That pricks Foreman out of his passive-aggressive door-slamming. He stalks towards House with non-passive aggression written all over his face.

" _One_ of them was real," House defends himself. The sight of Foreman walking towards him with that look that's half intensity and half anger is stupidly paralyzing. He doesn't know whether to flinch or let Foreman have his wicked way with him, and it usually ends up as the worst of both worlds: he flinches, then warms to it, then ends up begging for more. "You like reading case notes."

Foreman's right in his face, kissing-distance away, and House's cane is about all that keeps him from slouching right into that trap. Although if kissing Foreman in the parking lot would keep him distracted, it might be worth it. House is about to gamble on his ability to keep Foreman's attention when Foreman says, "I _hate_ reading case notes."

Well, _fine_. "Then it's a good thing we're not taking the train." House slings off his backpack and rams it into Foreman's chest, knocking him onto the back foot. "Here's my suitcase."

"This is your backpack."

"It has a change of clothes in it, it's a suitcase." House circles the car to the passenger door, disguising his quick glance around the parking lot to see if there's a convenient audience in earshot. Foreman's reactions are so much better when House outs them in company. "I won't need more than one set because the rest of the time I'm going to be lying in your hotel bed. Naked."

Foreman dangles his backpack from one hand like a biohazard trashbag and stares at him flatly. "No, you're not."

"No, I'm not. I'll leave my boxers on." House nods over the roof of the car. It _has_ been four months; they're going to get stale if they don't change it up. "We need a little mystery. It's hotter that way when I'm watching porn on your hotel television and jerking off."

"No. You're not."

House rolls his eyes as expressively as he knows how. Nothing makes him itchier to keep _pushing_ than Foreman shoving his eternal tedium in his face. And refusing to show that he's turned on by House stroking himself; Foreman has begged to watch plenty of times. "And drinking your minibar vodka--"

"You're not registered at the damn conference, House!"

House can't remember when scoring a point off Foreman's temper started feeling like a rat's reward in a maze, but the conditioning's the same. A shot of warmth, like a gulp of bourbon spreading its glow through his body, gives him a mini-high with every intermittent reward. Satisfied, he says, "Cuddy will cover the minibar."

"No, she won't. She's barely covering my hotel room."

House blinks stupidly and earns himself another warming glare. "Huh. Good thing we're sharing."

Foreman shakes his head and yanks the driver's side door open. "Why the hell do you want to come? You hate conferences. It's sitting still and listening. I don't think you have the ability to do either."

"Ability, sure. Desire--" Well, maybe Foreman's right. This once.

"Fine." Foreman stabs a button and the locks chunk open. "Get in the car."

Giving in is never giving in. "Why?"

"Because we're leaving. And if we're not leaving, then I'm leaving while you stay here pointlessly trying to distract me." Foreman throws House's backpack into the backseat like it burned him and then laughed at his pain.

"Good." House opens his door and folds himself into Foreman's car. The passenger seat is set exactly where he likes to give him leg room, and the recline is perfect for a nap while Foreman drives and broods. "I've got the playlist on my iPod all synched up."

Only Foreman would ever try to turn pulling his seatbelt on into a menacing production. He turns his head slowly to stare at House, with _I wish you were dead and I could probably make it happen between here and the Holland Tunnel without a single repercussion_ stoniness. Which is as it should be.

House wriggles his shoulders back against the seat and gives Foreman his most winning smile. "I know you love my music."

  


* * *

Conference registration is set up in the middle of the hotel's elaborate lobby, which looks like it was trying to be a tribute to Louis XIV or else the Las Vegas strip, and got caught halfway between as a sesquicentenarian's birthday cake. House wrinkles his nose at all the doctors in suits who are laughing heartily and shaking hands like politicians. He can't imagine why the hell he thought this would be a good idea. Except that with House as a drag on his social life, Foreman isn't likely to smarm his way into somebody else's bed. Three days is long enough for these quacks to forget what they're getting at home. "Greg House," he mutters to the registrar, peering around the lobby as he picks up the first name badge that falls under his fingertips.

Foreman stomps up behind him two seconds later, carrying his suitcase. House's backpack hangs over his shoulder, ruining the line of his suit. "Whose badge is that?"

"I don't care." House clips it to his lapel, crooked. The lobby's atmosphere of brightly-lit conviviality tightens around him like the room's shrinking. He edges away from the registration table, planning to slink upstairs or at least find whoever's handing out those glasses of wine. It probably came out of a screwtop.

Foreman stops him with a hand on his chest and rips off the name badge. He glances at it, snorts, and then holds it up. House catches the name Dr. Jennifer Lee before Foreman slaps the badge back on the table. "This is Dr. House," he says to the registrar. "You don't have a badge for him because he's not a member of this conference."

That fast, the skulking feeling disappears, and House straightens his shoulders. This is going to be sweet. "Actually--"

"Actually, he is," the registrar interrupts. "Sorry we got you the wrong badge, Dr. House."

"Thank you." House takes the badge the registrar offers him and smirks at Foreman, taking his time to clip it on straight, then brushes a fleck of imaginary lint off his suit jacket.

Foreman dumps House's backpack to the floor. "You had to sign up for this two months ago!"

"Right after you did." House reverses his cane and hooks his pack closer, then picks it up and hitches it over his shoulder. He glances at the table and picks out Dr. Eric Foreman, waving it like a lady's handkerchief at a knight. Their registration numbers are about three digits apart. "I thought it would be romantic." He bats his eyelashes ridiculously, ignoring the sweat springing up on his palms. Either he's shaming the devil or he's hypoglycemic. It _has_ been a while since breakfast. "Do we have a room yet?"

Foreman snatches his badge away from him. "You wanted to heckle me."

"Gotta get back on the horse. Anyway, conferences are great for running into old _pals_." Foreman's going to dance with who brung him if House has to tattoo TAKEN across his forehead.

"You wanted to _police_ me? In case _Marty_ turned up?" Foreman's shoulder jerks as he yanks up his suitcase and crowds House back from the registration table. His eyes darken with anger even though House said no such thing.

"That sounds like a guilty conscience." House twists back and starts stomping for the elevators. Their room better be a suite with a forty inch flatscreen and twenty-four hour room service, because he's not going anywhere near Foreman's bout of professional masturbation. "Can't always tell if you've fucked the memories of the last boyfriend out of a guy until you give him some room to run."

"Marty and I were never together, and you know it."

House knows no such thing. _Marty_ , the oily fucker, knows more about Foreman's neurology residency in L.A. than House does, and that's more than reason enough to hate his guts. The fact that Marty _laughed_ at House when he found out that House and Foreman were fucking never convinced House that Marty was straight; just that he was waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Foreman gives up on herding him and drops into step beside him, where he's supposed to be. House glares at him long enough to see Foreman's anger giving way to an incredulous chuckle. "You're really here to stalk me."

"Don't flatter yourself," House snaps.

"I think I will." Foreman shakes his head, like House has just told a joke for the sole purpose of stroking his ego. "I think--"

"Greg!"

Foreman's head jerks around at the voice calling behind them. House turns more slowly, inured by years of practice to ignore everyone who wants his attention. More than likely, they'll want it for something stupid.

House doesn't know what stops first, his feet or his breathing. He ends up nearly tripping over his own cane and having to remind himself about the importance of oxygenated blood before he can scrape the gobsmacked look off his face. "Jake," he says, and the weirdly unaccented way he says it echoes in his ears. He might be saying 'look, a table' instead of 'the guy I fucked for a year during our residencies.'

Jake's always been an inch or so taller, but he's more stooped now. Glasses--bifocals--and crow's feet, but his eyes are the same. Green, and laughing at House. They look grey in low light, the way it gets in a cheap-ass rented apartment's bedroom, when he's teasing the hell out of House instead of letting him come. House remembers Jake's build as the heat and weight of his body when he was fucking him; bigger than him, but not muscle-bound. It's almost a surprise to see he's got a bit of a gut, like exercise has lost a few battles lately. His hair is short, receding at his temples, and that too-flat brown colour that makes House wonder how grey he had to get before his vanity kicked in. He's got a moustache, which he never had before. It's neat and trim and so _professorish_ that it comes off as an affectation. House shoots Foreman a quick look. His eyes are glued to Jake's name badge. Dr. Jacob Turner, but the pretension has never fit him as naturally as it does Foreman.

"How long has it been?" It's a meaningless phrase--does Jake think House doesn't remember?--but sarcasm tinges Jake's tone, which was always reason enough to tolerate him before. "Still trying to figure out rheumatology?"

House swallows when he realizes he's supposed to _speak_ to answer. His voice rasps when he finds it. "I've read a few books."

"Sure. Throwing me at Rowan Chase was good of you. I've--"

"Excuse me." Foreman. Standing at House's elbow. Drawing himself up like his five-ten is going to do him any good in this pissing contest. House scowls at him, fury and panic mingling like nausea in the pit of his stomach. Tagging along as if Foreman would notice or care that House is at his conference, beyond getting pissy that House is on his turf, was House's bright idea. And he could damn well do without either Foreman or Jake trying to corner him right now. Ten minutes longer and he would have had a plan in place for dealing with _both_ of them, but he let himself get distracted by the self-congratulatory atmosphere that hangs in the lobby like smog.

"Oh, sorry." Jake can pull on the same snake-oil fakery as the rest of them. "Jake Turner. You must be--"

"Eric Foreman."

"Eric, right. One of House's minions." Jake smirks at House like they're sharing a laugh, but the only thing House wants to laugh at is Jake's stupid little broom-brush of a moustache. "I keep up. Does he let you out of the salt mines often?"

Foreman meets Jake's eyes fiercely, as if his pride depends on pretending he doesn't already loathe him. Not that he has any reason to. Just because House has dropped Jake's name into a few fantasy jerk-off sessions for Foreman's benefit is no reason to get prejudiced. "I'm--"

"Delivering a paper. It looks interesting. I'll be there." Jake's smile dismisses him, and he turns to face House squarely, shouldering Foreman out of the conversation. "Greg, what the hell have you been doing with yourself?" He grabs House's elbow, tugging at him like a two-year-old begging for candy. _Shit_. House stumbles hard, his weight thrown onto his left leg before he can yank his arm back and get his cane under him. Jake stares at him, like he's noticed the cane for the first time. "Jesus," he says. "I'm sorry, I didn't know--how'd you get this? Lacrosse injury?"

"No." The throb of his leg--which was doing just _fine_ even after two hours in Foreman's car--flares up. He should be furious at Jake for grabbing at him, but he can't manage it. There's someone in the world who doesn't know about his leg. Who hasn't heard the whole sordid story. House pratically feels like he's twenty-six again, an impossible age, like he could still sink to his knees in the time it took Jake to open his fly and push House down.

Jake grins, and this time, House sees past the moustache. Jake's the same. Infuriating, overeager, and laughing over shit that should piss him off. Whatever the last twenty years have done to _him_ , it doesn't show. House doesn't know whether to hate him or start digging for the rough edges, the places where a couple of decades have left their mark. "Well, buy me a drink," Jake says, clapping House on the shoulder, this time careful of the force he uses. "Fill me in."

House has already taken five steps after him, leaving his backpack at Foreman's feet, before he even realizes he intended to go.

"House!" Foreman's voice is sharp, like he's calling his dog to heel.

House glances over his shoulder at him. Foreman's pissed off, fists bunched, but his eyes are almost panicked, like he has no way to ask _what the hell?_ House can feel the squirm of panic in his own gut, but his curiosity's stronger. Pushing Foreman has become a daily treat, but this once, he has no clue which way Foreman will jump. "Sorry, minion," he says. "Catching up. I'll see you later."

  


* * *

Compared to the rest of the hotel, the bar is a dank hole. Instead of cutesy candelabra, it looks like somebody used Jurassic Park as the decorating scheme, because there are more ferns than bar stools. It's like being a damn jungle explorer. House lets Jake choose them a table, and then he bats at the fern nearest their table, peering through to the lobby to see if he's being hunted by any panthers.

Jake sits back and waits until House stops fiddling with the leaves overhanging their table. "You want to get a drink?"

"Yeah. You're buying." House cranes his neck, looking around Jake back to the bar's entrance. Foreman didn't follow them. When Foreman went out for an intimate dinner with _Marty_ , House showed up before they'd even ordered. If he'd been on top of his game, Marty would have stormed out five minutes later. Instead, House had been the one to fling a glass of wine in Marty's face and stalk out. Foreman had followed him then. He'd chased House down before he could drive away and pushed him up against his own car while he tried to convince House that he and Marty were never anything. He never did convince House of that; even Foreman's not that good a kisser.

The point is, Foreman can't possibly mean it when he says they should be allowed to go out for drinks with their so-called friends. Even when those friends are ex-boyfriends. As far as House is concerned, it's a countdown until Foreman's moral high ground crumbles and he shows up like the hypocrite he is.

"You haven't changed."

Twenty years has certainly killed Jake's ability to make interesting conversation. And _he's_ changed. Seeing his thin hair and the glasses makes House feel the creak in every joint. He shrugs and looks around for something to fiddle with. He picks out a paper napkin and starts tearing it into strips and balling them up. After a minute of silence, their waitress shows up. Jake asks for the house red. House snaps out an order for a bourbon. The waitress's smile is this-is-my-job friendly, but her ass in her tight pants is friendlier than that, so House watches her go.

Jake's stare doesn't waver from his face. "It's been a while."

House's eyes snap to the bland mockery in Jake's eyes. "If I'd known you were going to lead with pointless small talk, I'd have turned you down."

"So telling you to get on your knees because I was going to fuck your brains out would've been a better opener?"

The reference to the day Jake moved in isn't going to budge him. House needed a roommate. Since Jake was pretty good at getting him off on a regular basis and paying half the bills, he was worth having around. That doesn't mean he's going to turn this drink into for-old-time's-sake.

"Fine." Jake shakes his head. "What happened to your leg?"

House grimaces and tries to imagine Foreman throwing Jake's wine in his face. He can't picture it. He flicks the little paper ball he's made at Jake's face and says, "Infarction."

"Muscle loss? What kind of nerve involvement?"

House glares at him. So much for the one person in all the world who didn't know.

Jake rolls his eyes. "I assume it's chronic. What kind of pain meds?"

"If you don't care enough to steal my patient records, you don't deserve to know."

Jake taps his fingers on the table, but he's always shrugged off House's stonewalling too easily. The waitress comes back and places their drinks in front of them, giving them another smile as if it might add percentage points to her tip. So far this is a fucking waste of time. House takes a swallow of his bourbon, pressing his lips together against the bite. If Foreman's not here, then what the hell is he doing? Beating off in his hotel room to prove to House his left hand is better than any reunion House has with Jake could ever be?

"This is a change," Jake says. He never knew when to give the hell up. "Wasn't there a girlfriend?"

House isn't even going to dignify that with a reply. Jake amused himself by calling House wishy-washy because he likes breasts and women in his porn. House was with Stacy for longer than he ever _knew_ Jake, so Jake has no fucking room to judge. "No ring, not that that means anything," House says, going on the offensive. "Expensive tie. Not _much_ of a gut. And you dye your hair."

"Not all of it." Jake sips at his wine, eyes amused over the rim of his glass. "In case you were fishing."

The idea of checking Jake's body over for every slump and wrinkle that's developed since House last saw him naked hits him hard. It's more nerves than arousal. His curiosity would be disappointed, it'd have to be. Nobody gets hotter after twenty years. The idea of showing himself in exchange clenches House up even tighter and turns his stomach cold. At least Foreman doesn't have anything to compare House's crippled, middle-aged ass to, not that that explains why he seems to like it. "I don't need to," he says. "Your name wasn't on the attendance list _before_ I signed up."

"You think I'm here because of you? Jesus, you're arrogant. I actually attend conferences for professional development."

House slouches back in his chair. "Professional development of _what_? You're not giving a paper, neurology bores you."

"Adolescent rheumatology." Jake stares at him pointedly, raising his eyebrows. That stupid moustache distracts House again. It gets in the way of reading just how much of Jake's snarky amusement is directed at him, and how much is Jake's usual background radiation. Jake was always clean-shaven when they kissed before, except on Sunday mornings when they hadn't had weekend rounds. But then, so was House. "Strangely, as it pertains to cognitive development. It's not a surprise that _I'm_ at a convention. You haven't been to one of these things in twenty years."

"Fifteen. But who's keeping track. You flew in from out of state--"

"You didn't take your name _off_ the attendance list when I signed up."

"You kept track."

"I haven't forgotten your tendency to stalk me, so yeah." Jake leans forward, forefinger tapping the table like he wants House to remember exactly what he can do with it. "Two hours on a plane is probably easier for me than two hours in a car for you. Why are _you_ here? The premiere name in diagnostics, but it's your fellow who's giving a paper--"

"He's not an idiot," House mutters, before he realizes what he's said. There's barely a swallow of bourbon left in his glass. House isn't sure when that happened.

"Huh." Jake's shoulders relax in slow satisfaction, moustache twitching with amusement as he files that little tidbit away. "More people would be interested in what you have to say."

"Then they can listen to me heckle him."

Jake considers his drink, swirling the wine around, then glances House's. "If you're not going to finish that, we could take this to my room."

This time there's no question. House's heart stops first, _then_ his breathing. He stares sharply at Jake, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Jake's laugh blares out in one foghorn blast. "You are still so easy," he says. _Bastard_. His straight face looks like a baboon's ass. House should've remembered that. "Jesus, Greg. I know you're with that guy. Eric, or whatever."

Tension coils in House's shoulders, and he hunches over his glass. Why the hell did he agree to this? Jake's not a key to his own personal time machine. Seeing him hasn't changed a damn thing. Through the ferns, the meet-and-greet in the lobby is growing even more smothering.

"I still know what you look like when you're being well-fucked and you don't want anyone to know," Jake says, still chuckling. "Like the cat that caught the canary on the hot tin roof."

"I didn't think you could mangle two meaningless sayings so much that they meant even less."

Jake tips his wine glass at him, smiling as if, underneath all his laughter, he actually cares. House knows damn well he doesn't. They haven't exchanged more than a dozen words since House moved out on him when their residencies were over. "Smug as hell. And jumpy as hell. What is he, fifteen years younger than you?"

"Eleven," House grits out. Not that it matters, or that he keeps track. He rolls his eyes. "And a half."

"Specific. And he works for you."

"Fuck off." There's not so much as a _hint_ that Foreman is going to show up, punch Jake in the face, and drag House away so that he can prove to him that this was all a mistake. What's the fucking point if House can't even manage that?

"God, Greg. You care."

He should have known. There's absolutely nothing he can get from Jake. "Might as well take what I can get," House says, and offers Jake a meaningless grimace that probably doesn't pass as a smile. "Like you said. He's younger, I've got this." House lifts his cane for show and tell, then uses it to lever himself out of his chair. "It won't last. Enjoy the conference."

  


* * *

It's midnight before House swipes his dishonourably-gotten key-card and pushes Foreman's hotel room door open. Since leaving Jake behind, he's found a bar willing to serve him liquor without the third-degree chaser. The wind stabbed through his coat the second he stepped out of the lobby doors, and the sidewalks are death-traps. Someone could lose their life savings taking a cab three blocks. This damn city is nothing but cement and slush, all of it grey, and when he got back to the hotel, House eventually ducked into one of the conference panels just so that he could nap without getting mugged. Eventually, the fern-infested bar downstairs threw him out.

The hotel room is dim, but the blinds aren't drawn. There's enough streetlight coming in that House doesn't have to feel his way with his cane tip. By the time the door falls shut behind him, he's already seen Foreman sitting on the end of the bed. In the dark. Hands twined together. At least Foreman's damn _sulks_ are predictable.

House walks up to him, chin raised defiantly. "Why the hell did you tell the front desk not to give me a key?"

"You're a member of the conference," Foreman says, in his fucking _reasonable_ tone of voice, as if they're having a conversation and not the argument House wanted when he came here. At least when they _argue_ , he can wind Foreman up enough until they're kissing, and he doesn't have to think about how to be angry in words. "You have your own room reservation."

"Doesn't mean I meant to use it," House snaps.

"Fine. Use this one." Foreman stands up and walks past him to the door, and then he's gone.

Foreman just doesn't fucking _get it_. Why House is here. What he wants. House slumps down on the end of the bed. It's warm under his ass where Foreman was sitting. House doesn't reach for the lamp. Even the idea of hotel porn listings doesn't do anything for him. It's not the same without Foreman getting his stupid teasing hands in the way, whispering his stupid hot-breathed commentary in House's ear, or pressing his stupid hard-on against House's ass while House is _trying_ to rub one off in peace.

Well, fuck him.

House pulls off his coat and heads for the minibar. He lines up the tiny bottles of vodka on the arm of the easy chair and sets to work toppling them onto the floor empty, one by one. A mind-numbing black and white movie is all the light he needs to see by.

When the door clicks open, House is sprawled across the bed, over the covers, with macadamia nut dust gritting underneath him. He sneers in Foreman's general direction as the door closes. His eyes are adjusted to the dark well enough that he can see the stiff, proud set of Foreman's shoulders. "Couldn't find another room?" he asks, prodding at Foreman's pride. If House was here with Wilson, he'd probably have sob-storied his way into some conference-attendee's guilt-free out-of-town bed by now.

"I'm not paying for one," Foreman says. He tugs his shirt tails out of his pants and starts undoing his buttons, stepping out of his shoes at the same time. "Move over."

"Oh, I suppose you'd kick the cripple out to sleep on the sofa." House's voice comes out about ten decibels louder than he meant. He decides he likes it that way. "I've had nights like _this_ before."

"I'm going to sleep."

"While I'm watching _Plan Nine From Outer Space_?" He's pretty sure that's what's flickering on the television screen. He's buzzed enough by now that it's even a decent distraction.

"Probably after you've passed out. But I'll get a head start now."

"So did I." House holds up one of the vodka bottles as proof. "Doesn't mean I'm going to pass out. Some of us can hold our liquor."

Foreman stops, belt halfway out of its loops, and tilts his head. Even in the dark, House can see the question he's not asking. _How does_ Jake _hold his liquor?_ Anger heats the pit of his stomach, and House pushes himself to sit up, swallowing against the room's spin. Jesus, didn't he go through enough enduring Jake's damn questions? "Oh, would you _shut up_?"

"I didn't say anything."

No, he didn't. He never does. Foreman lets his silences do his judging. "You didn't need to." House feels around in the dark for his cane and then points it at Foreman's sternum. "I'm not interested in sitting around watching you pout because I had a fucking drink with him."

"Oh, really. What did you expect me to do instead? Walk in on the two of you and make myself at home?"

 _Yes!_ The shout is on the tip of House's tongue, but he bites it back, humiliation mixing hotly with his righteous anger. Every damn scenario he'd worked out in his head had started like that. They ended with Foreman fucking _doing_ something instead of brooding in his damn room. What the hell is the point of any of this? Of coming to Foreman's stupid conference? House is here and Foreman hasn't even fucking noticed. House climbs to his feet, careful of his balance but capable of walking, no thanks to Foreman. He pushes himself towards the door. "I'm going out."

"Great. You do that." Foreman rips off his shirt, strips down to his boxers, and gets into the bed, for once in his rule-following life leaving his clothes scattered and unfolded. "Good _night_."

For a long second, House simmers on the edge of fury in the doorway. The light from the hall spills into the room, but Foreman crunches the pillow up under his head and turns away, so House walks out, slamming the door behind him.

  


* * *

The lobby is just as fake-candle-riddled now as it was this afternoon, although midnight makes the fluorescent lights waver in front of his eyes. House scuffs past the concierge's desk and finds a leather sofa to fall onto. It's too short to consider sleeping on, even if hotel security wouldn't kick his ass out of the hotel for loitering. House closes his eyes and massages his forehead, then scrubs his hand down his face, anger acid enough to burn through his veins. Why the hell should Foreman get to sleep in a damn four-star bed while House sits down here freezing his ass off?

If he sits here all night, eyes burning but awake, he'll have the bed to himself in the morning while Foreman's delivering his damn paper. He'll also miss the paper. Which is adequate, although Foreman should _know_ he can do better. It's so damn conventional that House wants to ball it up and stuff it down Foreman's throat because he knows better than _that_ , too. He deserves to be heckled.

House shifts his weight forward, then lets himself fall back. The only point to getting up is to _talk_ to Foreman, as if that's a solution. But the sofa is too low and too soft; he feels like he's sitting in leather-covered quicksand. He'd rather fall asleep with Foreman's chest tucked up against his back, Foreman's arm thrown over him, Foreman's nose bumping the back of his neck, if only because it's become familiar. More to the point, it's useful having his own personal heating pad when his leg is acting up. And Foreman isn't completely clueless when House needs a distraction, either, whether that comes in the form of poking Foreman in the ribs until he gets pissy, or having Foreman fuck him into an endorphin high.

Damn it. The lobby lights ache behind his eyes. A hangover is the last thing he wants. House maneuvers himself to his feet and stomps to the concierge's desk. He slaps the ring-for-service bell until the night concierge comes out of his office. "Call room 1207 for me," House tells him.

The concierge's eyes flick to the clock. "Are you sure--"

"I know what time it is!" House holds up his key card. "It's _my_ room. Call it."

The concierge raises an eyebrow, but he picks up the receiver and dials the extension, handing the phone off to House when he's done. House glares at him, but he doesn't back off far enough not to be listening in.

The ringing buzzes in his ear. Either Foreman's fumbling for the phone in the dark because he actually fell asleep, or he's thinking about how annoying House might get if he doesn't answer. He should know that House can get _very_ annoying. Smart money would be on picking up the phone, and Foreman finally does. "What?" he says, his voice flat in House's ear.

"I'm in his room," House says, staring down the concierge who thinks eavesdropping is a job perk. "I just sucked him off."

The idiot's eyes widen and he finally learns to take a hint, disappearing back into the office he came out of.

"No, you're not," Foreman says.

"No, I'm not, but I could be. He made a pass at me."

House can nearly picture Foreman collapsing back against the pillows, elbows out, one hand supporting his head and other holding the phone to his ear. "Why the fuck are we doing this on the phone, House?"

"Because you're an asshole."

"So are you."

House leans his elbows on the counter and grimaces at the faux-granite finish. "Why the fuck are you jealous?"

"Of the guy you fantasized about when you jerked off in front of me? I wonder."

"It was _one time_. And it was a fucking _fantasy_. You're supposed to find those hot." Which Foreman did. House brought himself off and then left Foreman with a pretty impressive hard-on. Served him right, at the time. House can't quite remember why, except that it always serves Foreman right.

"I'm not interested in talking with a guy who's fucked you over a couch," Foreman says.

"Why?" House insists. "Because you can't fuck me over a couch?" The times Foreman refused to wait and tried to blow him standing up never fucking _worked_ , which he should have known.

"No," Foreman snaps, too fast. "Because you're--" He stops cold, only a sharp breath coming over the line.

House sneers, knowing Foreman will hear it. "Can't say it, can you."

"Fuck you." The unimpressed, deadpan monotone is gone. Foreman just sounds tired and pissed off. He sounds like he's wearing the same expression on his face he was when House followed Jake without a thought. Hurt. Disbelieving.

House isn't going to let _guilt_ stop him from pushing, when Foreman couldn't even push enough to drag House away from drinks with his ex. Foreman doesn't really want him. "You can't say the word boyfriend--"

"House."

House shuts up. Not because he wants to, but because he's listening so hard that he needs his breath still in his throat.

Foreman's voice is deeper, rougher; the phone brings him close enough that House can almost feel his weight, the unbreakable grip of his hands on House's wrists. "You know what I was going to say."

House lets the silence build until it aches. "So say it."

"Because you're _mine_ ," Foreman says.

House slams the receiver down into the cradle and heads for the elevators. His pulse flutters in his wrists, slams against his sternum. A few minutes later he's walking in to the hotel room. On the bed, Foreman's barely a shadow after the brightness of the hall. "Get over here."

House finds the edge of the bed with his knees and then climbs on. He catches the annoyance on Foreman's face, but Foreman doesn't speak as he throws the sheets off himself. He looms over House as he works on his buttons, methodically stripping him down to his shorts and then rolling him under the covers. Just like House expected, Foreman grabs him and manhandles him until he's practically bear-cuddling him to death.

"Why are you at this conference?" Foreman asks quietly, once he's got House where he wants him. He's warm and solid and his voice burrs in House's ear. House shrugs, irritated. They're here now. But of course Foreman won't just let him get some fucking sleep. "He joined after you did. I saw the number on his badge."

"You expected me to keep an eye on the guest list after I joined." House squirms, and relaxes when Foreman tightens his arm around him. House could wrestle his way free if he was ten years younger and in better shape and not a cripple, but Foreman squeezes him like he needs every ounce of his strength to keep him right where he is, and House breathes more easily.

"In case I found out and dropped my membership? Yeah, you'd check."

House sniffs. At least Foreman knows that much about him. "So what are we going to do?"

"Are you interested in him?"

House barely refrains from throwing an elbow back into Foreman's solar plexus. "Jesus, Foreman, knock it off. I get it, you're jealous."

"No," Foreman says. "I don't know if I can trust you. I'm better than him. I'm not going to ask you about every day of your life for the last twenty years and I'm not surprised that you can't jog or climb a flight of stairs. You don't want to be with him. But you might want to ruin what you have with me."

House draws in a breath. Fucking Jake is the line. It's there now, it's possible. He could test it, find out. Make sure. Break this.

But he already knew. He could have done it this afternoon, and he didn't. He asks, instead. "That would ruin it?"

"What the hell do you think? Is that why we're here?"

It feels like his heart is beating normally for the first time since they walked into the hotel. House wriggles again, forcing Foreman to adjust to him. They end up closer together, with Foreman's knees tucked behind his so that House can roll back into him without losing an inch of support. "No, we're _here_ because you're delivering a paper and I'm going to heckle you."

"You had a chance to make it better," Foreman points out.

House snorts quietly. "So did you."

"So this is supposed to be for my benefit?"

"No." Somehow, like this, with Foreman's mouth resting softly on his shoulder in an almost-kiss, it's less annoying that Foreman has no clue about what this is really all about. "You wanted to leave Princeton and go stay in a four-star New York hotel with a minibar for three days without me."

"Two months ago," Foreman protests. "How was I supposed to know?"

Two months ago was early December. They'd barely agreed to take things seriously after a month of casual fucking. House swallows hard, but he grits it out, defensive as hell, the words nearly sticking in his throat. "I knew."

Foreman inhales, loud enough that House can hear it, and feel the draw of Foreman's chest. House clamps his mouth shut, jaw aching, shoulders tense, while he waits for Foreman's goddamn arrogant chuckle.

But Foreman only says, "Oh." He bends his head to brush another kiss against House's shoulder, his grip around him at once relaxing and growing more confident.

House closes his eyes. So he's finally allowed to sleep. It took long enough. Foreman's warmth eases through him, and House leans back into him, because he's there, and it's simple.


End file.
